


A Whisper in the Walls

by tyrionlannistre



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Drama, F/M, Family, Georgian Period, Racism, Romance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-10 14:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4395023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrionlannistre/pseuds/tyrionlannistre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one says it out loud, but it’s like every thought whispers through the halls anyway, rumors of the honorable Henry Allen, Earl of West Sussex taking a slave’s daughter into his home. The girl of an old friend, one he met in a journey overseas when he was a green boy still; a friend he learned to love like a brother because he has none of his own, who begs of him to raise his child so she is saved from the same captivity as he.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly inspired by the movie Belle, which I watched only recently. I'm planning a rather long story, so there will be a lot of build up before it gets to the really good stuff. But do be patient with me please. 
> 
> While I understand this is a very sensitive subject and claim no expertise on the matter, I'll be focusing more on the relationships between characters with mentions of slavery/racism in the societal context. New character tags will be added as the story progresses; don't be surprised if all of DCU shows up!
> 
> Also, a major thank you to shaloved30 and boniferhasty for helping me through this. :)

**England, 1771**

 

_Dearest Henry,_

_It has been years, hasn’t it? I’m afraid the hair you once loved to touch is wearing thinner on my head, though in my dreams I imagine you remain as lordly as you’ve ever been. I asked about you when the last group from the Royal Navy ventured here. They tell me you’re an Earl and nothing more. My happiness for you cannot be measured through words._

_You taught me to read and to write, and I wish to have written to you under better circumstances, as free men as we often joked. Last we met, you gave medicine to my wife for remedying her fever, and for that, I am most thankful. It is then that I make a most selfish request again._

_I write this letter with a heavy heart, and understand this: my request is not an easy one and I do not expect an easy answer; only your consideration. My wife has broken of her illness, except that upon her birthing bed, the medicine did little to save her life. Maya is dead, and she has been dead for years. You cannot save my wife this time, but I ask that you save the child she gave her last breath for._

_She’s a good daughter, but I fear her fragility and thin bones will be the short death of her for where we are heading._

_Traders from Scotland have arrived a fortnight ago and have gathered us for their trip back. I hear men talk of a stop in London for three nights. May I plead that you meet our ship and take her as your own? You once told me that man should not pay for the color of his skin. What say you of a child, Henry? If man should not have to pay, then a child is indebted neither._

_We were brothers once. You pledged as much, and I pray that you believe it still. A night has not passed that I omit you and Lady Nora Allen from my prayers. God has gifted you when my wife was in most need. I know not what I owe for it. But, my dearest brother, I owe you what little my life is worth for the protection of my daughter._

_I’ve stolen a copy of the route from the traders, and you’ll find it folded with this letter. Please be good, Henry, even if I shan’t see you in London soon. My prayers are with you and the gentle heart of the Lady always._

_Most humbly yours,_

_Joe_

 

*

 

The carriage seems compact with company on the day’s ride back from the city, which is a ridiculous notion because his company takes less space than a single seat. It’s the weight of the decision that tightens the four corners, he realizes.

May has come hot this year, unbearable and sticky enough to irritate his skin under clothing; or perhaps the itch is from the papers that bought a girl’s freedom. It was a hefty price, but Joe had not exaggerated her thin bones, and he marvels that she survived the conditions of her previous life. His coins, though, shine dull when he thinks of the child’s blind trust to take his hand and walk reluctantly from her father as she did.

At their parting, Joe almost cried, from either relief or sadness, and he isn’t sure what he would have done if Joe did. Hug him, maybe, and allow him another moment with his child. The Scots would deny the request then, out of spite for seeing the affection between them, and he thanks Joe’s strong will for holding himself together. No words were exchanged, but they were unnecessary.

 _She is safe with me_.

He can’t help reaching into his pocket to trace the ring Joe slipped to him with utter discretion. He remembers it on Maya’s finger all those years ago, hanging limply around her skinny finger as the fever wore her body down. It is a gift for the girl, one she’ll receive in Joe’s honor in due time.

When the carriage comes to a stop and the gates to Central Estates open, he feels his breath come to a momentary pause. His staff waits on him, even with their attention elsewhere.

No one says it out loud, but it’s like every thought whispers through the halls anyway, rumors of the honorable Henry Allen, Earl of West Sussex taking a slave’s daughter into his home. The girl of an old friend, one he met in a journey overseas when he was a green boy still; a friend he learned to love like a brother because he has none of his own, who begs of him to raise his child so she is saved from the same captivity as he.

She’s six, impossibly small for her age with large eyes and a quiet voice she’s used only a handful of times since Henry picked her up from London. The maids stare as she passes in the stairways leading to her new room, because there’s a face to their rumors, and the Earl knows that the previous peace of his life is gone with the loud echoes of this girl’s tiny footsteps.

It seems at a point that even his ancestors hanging proudly on the walls reserve their judgment, with their beady eyes following after him around the house, screaming vulgarities, not at him, but little Iris West and her textured hair, brown eyes and dark skin so different from their own.

 _Love her, for she is as much a daughter of mine as she is a relative of yours now_ , he wants to tell them. Instead, his hand tightens around hers and he quickens their steps to protect her from hateful gazes.

From a distant, he hears Sir Monty’s shortened heaving, and he dreads to wonder what trouble the young lord of the estates is getting into. Sir Monty’s chastening is lost on his son, and Bartholomew’s running comes to an immediate halt when they enter the room. The look on Barry’s face is one the Earl will likely never forget, but he pays no mind to it presently and says to him, “Barry, do heed to Sir Monty’s orders, or else you’ll find your time in the yards short tomorrow.”

“But Papa – “ 

The protests die on his tongue at the stern stare Henry fixes, and it’s an expression he rarely uses. His son knows to obey orders as such.

Iris’s eyes stay on him until Barry shyly leaves, sparing a glance more at their new house companion with red in his round cheeks, and he trips over his step as Sir Monty urges him out.

“Come now, child,” Henry continues. “We have to get you settled in and find a proper chambermaid.” He’s met with silence, but the gentle squeeze of her fingers against his is reassuring enough.

At the end of the stairs, Nora’s picture greets them, and the smile on her painted face relieves Henry in a way he needs. _You’re a good man,_ he hears clearly in her voice, as though he’s not forgotten the sound of her. He sees Iris studying the picture, taking in the pretty details of his wife’s face; the dark auburn of her hair, green eyes bright, though the painting does no justice to the life that was once in her eyes.

The painter had tried hard to frame every detail about her, and while the curved lines and colors of his labor are impeccable, no picture captures the beauty of Nora in the way that Henry admired.

Henry knows from his own experiences that anyone can get lost in staring at Nora’s painting, so he tugs on Iris’s arm in the direction of her room to pull her away from hours of endless gazing.

“This is Barry’s room,” Henry says as they pass by the first room in the hall. “I hope that you’ll be more comfortable in his companionship than you would be on a floor by yourself. Is that alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

He takes her further down until they reach a closed door that faces opposite of Barry’s own, towards the south yard of the properties. The room has been prepared for her, decorated in bright purples and blues. The canopy of her bed is trimmed in lace and does well against the lavender silks of the bed covers. In the corner of her room are two chairs and a small bookshelf, should she ever want to fill them with a collection of literature of her own choosing.

Henry has learned that children are curious people with their particular interests, and Barry’s own shelves fill to the top with books of astronomy and sciences he’s been presented by Henry or Henry’s visiting friends, and he cares none for history or fictional stories.

The drawers at the bedside are freshly polished oak that Henry had requested for a guest bedroom, but he finds that this is a more pressing issue. They’ve been handcrafted to accommodate enough clothing for several weeks, not enough room to accommodate someone for several years. An eventual request will have to be made to create a closet for Iris, and Henry makes note to inquire of it.

Attached to the side is a small bathing room, and he shows her to it. She might grow out of it soon, but for the time being, she fits perfectly well within the walls.

“Your room is yours to decorate as you wish, Iris. Please make yourself comfortable.” Henry is sure that his words fall on deaf ears for a moment, because she stares so intently out of her window to the large expanse of the estates. He understands that it is a lot to take in for a small child, to be so far removed from her father’s care to the home of a stranger that promises her safety.

But she has acted bravely thus far. Her quiet strength and resilience reminds him too much of Joe.

The list of errands grows longer in his mind and Henry tallies each one left as he makes to leave the room. Just as he closes the door, he hears Iris say, “Thank you,” in a voice so soft that he strains to understand. Whether she thanks him for the room or something else entirely, Henry isn’t sure, but he accepts it the same.

 

*

 

Everything is new and…unfamiliar. It isn’t just the house and the people, but the environment around her. She has a nice woman who makes her bed for her even if she’s perfectly capable of making it herself and a cook who tends to her hungry belly. She has lessons with Miss Susie that she attends. There are piano lessons and writing and painting and arithmetic, and she is utterly rubbish at all of it. But Miss Susie is kind enough to reassure her that it all takes time and practice.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Miss Susie declares, seemingly growing a bit frustrated herself with Iris’s progress after four weeks. “Then when we come back, we’ll try division again.”

Iris doesn’t mean to pout her frustration, but her bottom lip juts of its own accord. Miss Susie reprimands her for it, reminding her that it isn’t proper behavior, as she sees Barry peek his head into her tutor’s room and makes a funny face. She laughs despite the poor manners, and Miss Susie dismisses her with a sigh.

“Lessons coming along?” Barry asks once they’ve descended down the stairs.

Iris tries to politely convey the word _no_ in her expression, but she fails terribly by how Barry’s mouth cracks into a wide grin. “They’re miserable. There’s so much to know and it’s all frustrating. How many ways of counting numbers could there possibly be? And writing is just as terrible.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Barry’s face softens. “You’ll one day be the best writer in England, I know it.”

His reassurances were surely a favor, though Iris appreciates it anyway. She hasn’t assimilated into the household yet but Barry makes it increasingly easier for her.

She’s never had the kind of companion Barry has turned out to be. He breaks fast with her until they’re rushed to their lessons, and then takes her to the yard during breaks. He brings a lunch for her in the afternoons, and then they go to the lake for a swim.

Iris only recognized her loneliness once Barry showed her what it means to have a friend, and perhaps he does so out of his own lonesomeness. She wonders if he might have friends who visit him like Uncle Henry’s. If he does, he never mentions them and Iris perfectly content with having him for herself.

“What are we to do today?”

There is a slight breeze in the air, a welcomed one in the humidity of the day. A swim would be lovely, with the water cool enough to satisfy them in such heat. Barry considers differently, though, and his face beams with a thought.

“Would you like to learn a game that my cousin Caitlin taught me once?”

Iris nods and allows him to lead her to the trees. He explains it well, she supposes, but the purpose of the game is lost on her.

“Why should we hide from each other only to be found again instead of playing together as we always do?”

“Because it’s _fun_. You’ll see,” Barry says. He takes his turn to hide first, and when Iris has finished counting to twenty, she finds no traces of Barry around. He could be anywhere, really. The estates are so vast. She takes to her immediate surroundings, scouring any place that Barry might have been able to reach in twenty seconds.

She catches him finally behind the bench by the lake, a bush and boulder barely concealing his form.

“Is it my turn now?” she asks once he concedes defeat.

It takes several minutes longer for Barry to find her, so she busies herself with drawing figures in the wet soil under her feet. She’s reminded of home suddenly, the countless nights making such drawings with her father as he described various things to her.

An ache starts in her lungs, like a sharp sting that thins her breathing. She misses him, misses the warmth of his hugs and kisses that Uncle Henry tries hard to mimic but doesn’t quite feel the same. She’d made her father a promise, that she’d be a good girl for Uncle Henry, and she thinks that she has been, but she can’t help the tears that spills from her eyes down her cheeks.

 _It’s better where you’re going, sweetheart_ , he said. Iris believes him, which is why she went along willingly with Uncle Henry. It doesn’t lessen how much she misses her father, nor will it ever.

“Iris?”

Barry comes to kneel beside her when she says nothing. She’s grateful that he makes no mention of her state, and chooses to focus on her drawing. He grows quiet and simply observes, his brows furrowing the more he studies it. Whether he recognizes what he sees, she doesn’t know, but Iris watches Barry trail his finger through the dirt, concentrating on his lines with his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth. They’ll be in plenty of trouble later for how messy they’ve become. The grime of their work shows in the stains on their clothing and under their fingernails. Miss Susie will have a fit if Iris comes back to her lessons in such a state.

She cares little for it now as Barry pulls away from his drawing. Her chest fills with a different kind of ache then, when she sees what it is Barry has done.

Where she drew the tall lines of her father holding her hand, another figure stands at her side; taller than her and shorter than the fourth figure at of the chain. They hold hands in the middle, and Barry’s representative extends to the one of Uncle Henry.

They hear Sir Monty calling for them in the distant and they make to stand, no explanation ready for how dirty they are. But Iris twines her fingers with Barry's anyway and follows his silent lead back to the house.

 

*

 

“I’ll be away at London for six days,” Uncle Henry says. Iris pours honey on her oats and waits for him to continue. “Something has occurred that demands my immediate attention. I expect that you’ll behave for Sir Monty and Miss Susie?”

“Of course, Papa.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

She meets Barry’s eyes from across the table and it matches the mischievous gleam of her own.

“You’ll know better than to misbehave so put those wicked smiles away,” Uncle Henry chides, though not entirely unkind. The corners of his lips slant in a knowing grin as he returns his attention to the paper in front of him.

He is not an unfair man, her Uncle Henry. He may be strict sometimes and a man of order, but he cares deeply for his household, the children especially. Barry told her one night that he is becoming an increasingly important figure in England, and that his need for order and propriety is of the expectations demanded of him. He expects no less from them as they fall under his responsibility.

Uncle Henry seems to be away more lately, always for work. As they draw further from summer and closer to fall, he is needed by various ministries of the King. He’s away almost every other week, and if it isn’t him traveling, then other comes to him. They host guests fairly often, though Iris herself sees few of them.

“You’re to attend your lessons and perform well. If I receive satisfactory remarks, then we can begin planning for Barry’s birthday celebrations next month.”

The prospect excites her plenty; to plan a party with every good thing she’s ever read about them. Music and dancing, food and cake and presents! She makes a vow with Barry that this time in Uncle Henry’s absence, they must truly be on their best behavior. Barry agrees readily.

“We’ll have layers of butterscotch cake,” Barry decides during their afternoon break. “Layers and layers of butterscotch with sticky frosting.”

Iris feels her face pull into a scowl. “What’s wrong with chocolate?”

“I suppose nothing. Perhaps we’ll be allowed both!”

Then they discuss who might be invited, and Barry begins to list names she has never heard before. It’s when he mentions his cousins again that she asks of them.

“I think you’ll like them,” Barry says, picking at the grass blades. “I mean, Caitlin is a little bossy, but Papa says it’s because she’s a proper lady.”

“Are all ladies like that?” Iris squints at him.

Barry shrugs. “My mom was a lady and she was nice. “

Common courtesy, Iris’s maiden lessons have taught her, is to not ask of such private matters unless it is spoken of first, but Barry wouldn’t take offense if she asks, would he?

Still, she thinks better than to pry information of his mother, especially with how closed his expression is at the mention of the Lady Nora Allen all of the maids talk so highly about.

Barry gives her an unsure look, his face scrunching in thought. “Are you a lady?”

She doesn’t know what gives a lady her title, but she’s certain that she isn’t. The maids call her Miss Iris and tend to her when she needs. If a lady is bossy though, Iris is perfectly happy as she is.

“No. I don’t think ladies are allowed to do this.” At Barry’s confusion, she gathers the torn grass blades at the hem of her dress and throws it at him, little pieces of it getting stuck to his hair and lashes, and she sprints from him with laughter as he chases after her.

 

*

 

Planning a party for Barry is a lot more work than Iris anticipated. She feels a little thankful that Uncle Henry merely asks of their opinions on certain matters and allows for the hired help to handle the rest. They choose from fabrics to decorate the rooms and various forms of entertainment throughout the evening. There’s more than just cake to be determined, but also a menu that’s appropriate for the high-ranks of their guests. Invitations must be drawn and sent, and the enormity of the house cleaned.

Once they work from the inside of the house, the planning must be done for the outside, as well.

“People like to wander and mingle wherever they can,” Uncle Henry informs her. “A good host is prepared to have all fronts of his home available to them.”

Barry has new clothes tailored for the occasion, which she thinks he needs anyway because of how quickly his limbs are growing out of his previous sets. While she becomes eager to see the threads in a final product, he’s less enthusiastic about it.

“It’s an unpleasant experience to be measured in every angle and have pointy needles poking at your skin,” he mumbles when he rejoins her in the yard after his fitting.

“Your father wants you to look handsome,” Iris reminds him, though her giggle at his misery is hard to stifle.

Barry’s bottom lip juts, and _oh goodness_ , he looks ridiculous. To lighten his mood, she tells him that Uncle Henry has agreed to butterscotch cake and many sides of chocolate minis, which does the trick quite nicely. He grumbles less about pins and more of how many pieces of cake he’ll have.

Iris wonders the same, her stomach nearly growling for it already, and Miss Susie notices her distraction during her piano lessons.

“Do we need to take another break or are you prepared to focus a little more?” Miss Susie’s brow lifts in an arch to shame her for coming unprepared. Iris bites on her lip and apologizes, and begins to play the notes as rehearsed. Miss Susie nods along, which means she is satisfied enough that Iris can relax and dream of cake and dancing again.

She hears from Barry of his other birthdays. Each one sounds so grand to her ears, like the fairytales her father used to tell her of. Iris even writes of them in the assignments Miss Susie gives her, and then praises Iris for her work.

They’re silly little stories, and Iris states as much to Barry about it when he asks to read them. But she insists that living in his stories and her father’s fairytales is much better than having to read through hers.

“Papa says that we’ll have company next week. Caitlin and my aunt and uncle will reach Sussex before the other guests, and they’ll remain until Caitlin’s classes begin.” Barry kicks his feet to the ground.

Iris watches the corners of his mouth turn down and his shoulders hunch just enough that she knows he’s put out. He talks highly of his cousin, that through her bossiness, she’s smart and nice like a sister would be. “Are you not happy about it?”

“It isn’t that,” Barry assures her with a shake of his head. He makes no other mention about it, and she’s left to her own guesses. But she is hardly familiar with his cousin to make any assumptions.

Uncle Henry, too, appears anxious on his family’s arrival. He does better to prepare the rooms set aside for Lord Edward and Lady Mary Snow, and their daughter Caitlin. Barry begs his father to allow Caitlin a room on their floor, but Uncle Henry is quick to dismiss the idea. Iris herself wants to beg as much until his gentle eyes land on her, suddenly saddened. He must tell Barry something of it, because in the few days leading to the arrival of Caitlin, Barry drops the subject matter all together.

When the noon of following Thursday comes, a carriage of a rather impressive size stops at the gates of Central Estates, and Uncle Henry rushes the house staff to the door. One by one, the maids and footmen line themselves.

Iris feels the nervous stammer in her heart as she waits at the bottom of the stairs. Barry stands by his father, who opens the door to welcome their family in.

Lord and Lady Snow are not quite who she imagines them to be. Her nervousness seems wasted on these two people with kind faces and it confuses her further on her uncle and Barry’s behavior of late. Lord Snow is tall beside his wife, with a rounded nose and dark eyes; slim and dark brown hair visible under his hat. He’s a handsome face like her uncle, though many years younger it would seem.

It’s Lady Snow who makes an impressive impression, however. She cuts an admirable figure in her gown trimmed to the bust in lace. Fair skinned unblemished and green eyes that hold a remarkable resemblance to her nephew, the same as the sharp turns of her face. Still, the bright auburn of her hair is what catches Iris’s attention, and there’s absolutely no mistaking that she’s the sister of the Lady of the house.

Between the adults stands a girl with her hand in Lord Snow’s, taller than Iris by several inches. Glossy hair brown and hazel eyes big like the perfect blend of her beautiful parents, she curtsies in her pretty dress to Uncle Henry and smiles unabashedly at Barry. Caitlin reminds Iris of the ladies she imagines in her father’s stories.

“Edward, Mary,” Uncle Henry’s smile is warm. “The comforts of my home are welcome to you.”

Lady Mary is the first to embrace him, and Uncle Henry is stiff before his arms wrap tight around her. “As always, we thank you for your hospitality.” When they part, her eyes fall immediately to Barry; the awe in her face is one of pure love. “My, you grow older by the day and take more after your mother.”

As Barry hugs his aunt, Iris watches quietly in how he clings to her, though preserves enough to be mindful he’s a young lord. Lady Mary doesn’t seem bothered and she clutches him to her more. There’s something almost sorrowful about the sight. Their reunion isn’t full of the happy kind that Iris initially thought, but a reminder that they’re two families bounded by a dead woman, each acting as an extension of her for the other.

After greetings have been made and pleasantries exchanged, Uncle Henry makes a show to clear his throat and lead his in-laws to where Iris stands. Lady Mary stops walking at the same time she makes eye contact with her. Upon observing her mother’s halt, Caitlin does the same. Only Lord Edward comes to her.

“This is Miss Iris West,” Uncle Henry introduces, and Iris doesn’t miss the strain in his voice. Barry stands next to her, tugging on her arm in hopes to coax her to talk.

Iris feels the stammer of her heart return to her. She doesn’t get the warmth from Lord and Lady Snow that her uncle and Barry received, and their keen, watchful eyes are full of judgment.

She dips in a curtsy as Miss Susie has taught her and says in a voice so soft and shaky it surprises her own ears, “Pleased to meet you, Lord and Lady Snow, Lady Caitlin.”

It becomes unbearably silent and, afraid that she might have done something wrong, Iris avoids their gaze. But Barry nudges her with a smile, which makes her think that perhaps the problem isn’t her at all. Lord Edward is the first to break, with a chuckle under his breath.

“She’s charming,” he says. He makes a polite bow of his own.

Lady Mary is less welcoming. Her mouth fixes in a tight line and her stare is cold, pinning Iris in her spot. “Yes. Utterly… _charming_.” Though her words are polite, Iris feels her intentions are anything but. Just as it appears that Caitlin will make an introduction of her own, Lady Mary takes her daughter’s hand and walks briskly past the stairs without a second glance.

It continues as such throughout the week. Lady Mary pays no attention to Iris, and often times acts as though she isn’t even in the room. She is scarcely allowed to talk or play with Caitlin. When she’s with Barry, Lady Mary calls him to her, explaining the importance of keeping his family company. Uncle Henry tries his best to include her, but between his work and the remainder of the party preparations, he isn’t around to speak on her behalf. At meals, Iris is asked to dine in a private room away from Barry and sometimes her uncle, knowing from the apologetic expression on his face that not even he can bend Lady Mary’s will on the matter.

The night before his birthday, Barry invites her to join them in the parlor after dinner. He promises that ice cream will be served and music shall be played. And Iris waits eagerly for dinner to be done.

Upon entering the parlor, Iris is met again with Lady Mary’s cold stare, but continues through the room until she takes her seat next to Uncle Henry. He pats her hand, which she finds is the most comforting of gestures. She says close to nothing throughout the evening, merely enjoying her promised ice cream. So she observes instead.

She pays mind to how straight Caitlin sits when Lady Mary gives a certain look, and the lingering hand of Lord Edward around his wife’s shoulder. There are moments of pure intimacy between the family of Snow that her uncle and Barry fidget in discomfort.

Perhaps not so much discomfort, Iris realizes, as it is longing. Lady Mary looks on her child proudly at every boast, with every perfect note she hits in the songs she sings, and Iris sees only the longing in Barry’s face.

The sight burns at her core, her arms itching to reach around Barry’s thin frame and comfort him, but she remains quiet until she’s rushed to bed.

 

*

 

Iris wakes to busy feet moving about the house; from her floor and down, from down back up, their sounds come all corners of the house. Her instinct lead her past the grogginess of the early morning and straight to Barry’s room, and to her pleasure, he’s asleep.

She feels only the slightest guilt when she throws herself on his bed and he shoots right up, but the greater pride she takes in being the first to wish him a happy seventh birthday more than makes up for it. Barry gives the tightest of hugs and thanks her. Already her morning is better than all of last week.

“What do you wish to get tonight?”

Barry speaks from the bathroom, waiting first to spit the paste from his mouth. “I really haven’t thought to any specific presents I might want. Just the party alone is enough.”

The answer is a load off her chest, and though she really is interested in the things he wishes for, the selfish part of her asked for the sake of her own gift. She thinks it might pale in comparison, perhaps serve to shame her when he receives it, especially when he’ll be given extravagant gifts bought from money. Iris cannot offer such, so she hopes Barry will see her no lesser for it.

There’s a knock on his door, and Caitlin lets herself in. She freezes in the doorway upon seeing Iris sitting on Barry’s bed, and Iris believes she’ll leave as she’s done before. Barry, though, waves her in.

“I didn’t mean to impose,” Caitlin apologizes. Her voice is quiet and unsure, different than her mother’s. Iris relaxes her shoulders that bound tight at her initial presence.

“You impose on nothing, Lady Caitlin. I was only wishing Barry a happy birthday. I’ll excuse myself,” Iris says quietly, stepping down from the bed. Her head is bowed as she learned to do around Lady Mary, hands around her robe as she readies her leave, but Caitlin shuffles forward.

“Please – you shouldn’t. Not on my account,” Caitlin stammers. Her face flushes red, and Iris sees the same uncertainty in her expression.

Iris’s lips stretch into a soft smile. The girl is clearly not her mother at all. “Then do join us, Lady Caitlin. 

“Caitlin. You may call me just Caitlin. If you’d like.”

Caitlin is easier to say, Iris decides. And she quite likes the name, too, just as she enjoys hearing Caitlin call for her by name as well. She doesn’t get a lot of time with Caitlin and Barry that day.

After breaking fast, they spend the rest of the morning playing the game Caitlin taught Barry that he taught to her, and it really is more fun when it isn’t just the two of them. Caitlin is quick and clever, and has proven Barry’s accusations of her bossiness right when she orders new rules to be made. Like where they may and may not hide and how many seconds the chosen seeker must count to before coming after the other two.

Shortly after, they’re in the library. They were kicked out from the yard in favor of having the florists finish their work, and then from the hall so the entertainers may be comfortable in their preparations. The maids have requested that they not get foot and fingerprints over the newly cleaned floors, furniture, and all things that would and could be touched by them.

Iris sits in chair with a book of poems opened on her lap, Caitlin across from her engaged with an anatomy book of her own, and Barry lies on his stomach on the floor, nose buried in a book of sciences.

Barry looks utterly engrossed in his reading that she hates to nag him. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your party?”

As though her question prompted the interruption, Sir Monty enters the library, a scolding _tsk_ on his tongue when he sees the three of them lounging about, and he all but drags Barry onto his feet. “Come now, Lord Allen. You must bathe and dress and rehearse your greetings.”

“If I must,” Barry grumbles, glancing over his shoulder at them, a visible frown on his pointy face, and leaves after Sir Monty.

Lady Mary comes to fetch Caitlin almost immediately, again ignoring Iris’s presence to usher her daughter out of the room.

Iris finishes the chapter she bookmarked, and thinks of what she might do next. Neither Barry nor Caitlin will be available for company until the party, so mayhap she’ll read another chapter. She dares not to go to the kitchens, despite the rumbling in her belly, because she’ll save her appetite for the meals later.

The chapters she reads though are very good, even if she understands not all of the exaggerated words in each poem. They’re beautiful and sometimes sad, but she continues to read with vigor, hoping to understand a little more. 

Two chapters later, no one comes to fetch her. She heads to her room instead and waits there. Surely a maid will find her there. Until then, she’ll practice her writing. She curves her letters in the way Miss Susie has taught her, determined to perfect the same flick as her tutor. When she’s satisfied with one letter, she moves on to the next, and then begins in sentences and eventually in pages.

It isn’t as bad as she made it to be at the start, and she thanks Miss Susie in her head for having the patience to show her as much. By the time she’s realized the sun is setting, she has a short tale inked.

Her wrist has become sore and it aches, and yet no maid comes. She wonders what Barry might look like in his new clothes. Older, probably, and hopefully happy. She’s sure Caitlin will wear a pretty gown, as well, made just for her on the order of her lady mother. Such thoughts find her on the bed as she swings her feet back and forth off its edge, waiting for the maids to prepare her for the party.

The sun has finally set when a knock comes at her door, the Earl peeking his head in.

“There you are,” he says. His voice is soft and gentle, and it takes a tone that Iris doesn’t quite like. “I thought you’d be in the library still so I went there and – it doesn’t matter.”

The Earl kneels at her bed and sighs. “The festivities will begin in a short while, but I must ask you to stay here, until the guests leave at least. Can you do that for me?” She hopes he makes a jest, a tease, but the solemnness in his expression weighs on her greater than her hope. She doesn’t understand why he would ask such a thing from her, not after how he knows she looked forward to the night, but she doesn’t say no. 

Iris ducks her head, feeling like she must have embarrassed her uncle somehow and he wishes her away from the party he worked hard on, and nods. Uncle Henry kisses her forehead, the apology on his lips doing nothing to ease the doubts in her head. She can’t look at him as he gets up to leave, afraid of what shameful truths she might see in his face.

Sounds of guests being greeted can be heard. Children running through the halls and loud choruses wishing Barry a happy birthday stretch to her room. Laughing begins right before the music cues, and Iris knows the first song to be one she urged her uncle to request. It’s one that Barry likes, too, as she’s seen him dance to it a few times.

Her chest feels heavy, a heavy ache that makes her want to throw herself on the bed and cry, to beg of her Uncle Henry to allow her to join Barry and Caitlin and the other children in celebrating. But she will not ruin her uncle’s hard work or Barry’s birthday because of her childishness.

She blinks away the sting in her eyes until she sees past the blurriness and everything is clear again. The thick knot that forms in her throat doesn’t swallow as easy, which seems to thicken more when sees Barry’s gift on her desk.

The bright colors stare up at her and it worsens the burn of her chest. She thinks the drawing looks better with a brush on paper than it had with their fingers in soil, though the latter has its own special merit. Four figures stand close as they did before, except the darkened brown of their work before is mirrored only in her father’s image and in hers. But the matching smiles on all four faces betray any differences they have otherwise.

Iris folds the paper carefully, mindful not to crinkle its corners in her palms as she makes for Barry’s room. She checks thrice around her to be sure she’s truly alone before sneaking entrance into his chambers. The drawing goes under his pillow, and then she goes back to her room.

She doesn’t bother to light her lamps, thinking she might retire to her bed early tonight. Pulling out her nightgown, she intends to change. The piercing crack of an explosion startles her to distraction. Fireworks start in the backyard, and Iris can see them perfectly from her window. In her brief glance to the large crowd evidently enjoying Barry’s birthday below her, it’s Barry’s eyes that she meets, and she wonders if he’s smiled at all since he left her that morning.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disappointment settles deep in her stomach, and Iris realizes that it isn’t the first time such a feeling has taken root. She looks around the room, thinking that it will unlikely be the last. 
> 
> Why, she wonders again. Why must I always be so different? 
> 
> Iris tries not to inquire too much into it, because she is often left grasping at her imperfections, accusing herself of being shameful in her uncle’s eyes. Sometimes she can’t help it, though. She’s different, perhaps not loved any less by Uncle Henry, but she is different than Barry, than Caitlin and Lady Snow and Miss Susie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than a year later. I have no excuses, but I should say now that I have no intentions of abandoning this story. I just have incredibly high standards for it, which requires a lot of time and effort to write until I'm happy with my progress. And sometimes, I can lose that inspiration if I feel it going off-track. 
> 
> Nevertheless, I'm already 1/4th into the next chapter! Progress. 
> 
> Shout out to Tati (valeriemperez) and Sha (shaloved30) for their help once again. I can see that the story would shape up to be sloppy and useless if not for their wonderful input.

Spring, 1773

 

“Very good,” Miss Susie applauds, swaying her shoulders to the tune of the piano.

Iris’ fingers move seemingly on their own across the keys, each perfect note a testament of her hard work. It isn’t her favorite lesson, but she has become very good at it, and it’s a skill that Miss Susie tells her is very desirable in a woman.

She often wonders to whom she should appear desirable. Uncle Henry and Barry seem perfectly content with her, whether she knows how to play the piano or not. Certainly Miss Susie has become fond of her, and Sir Monty seems to like her well enough, though he is a bit distant at times. Lady Mary will undoubtedly stay cold towards her even if she comes out of her lessons as the brilliant ghost of old European composers. Iris is hardly familiar with anyone else.

Perhaps her tutor speaks in general terms, but still, she doesn’t understand why any woman would care for the desirability of a person who holds the piano to such high esteem. Then again, she understands next to nothing about the culture of English nobility. Uncle Henry has hardly tried to introduce her to it, and Barry was born into his lordly role. It isn’t an environment she feels particularly welcome to, but it makes her curious. She’s allowed glimpses of it, when her uncle hosts other ranking lords and ladies for weeks at a time.

Iris rather enjoys the idea of dressing up and being entertained for an evening, though Barry seems miserable about the nights he’s asked to join Uncle Henry and his guests for dinner. Every time she peeks her head between open doors or watches the gatherings through a window, it seems magnificent, being wined and dined in pretty gowns with sweet melodic music playing until someone starts a dance. And then the entire room eventually. Even Barry is convinced to dance a routine or two by the older women who cannot stop their cooing over the Earl’s growing boy despite how he fumbles over their toes.

She imagines it’s for such occasions that Miss Susie wishes to her prepare for, but Iris becomes increasingly convinced that knowing an instrument will be a useless skill for her.

Learning to play the piano came surprisingly easy to her, and Uncle Henry assures her that her talent in music likely comes from her father. There were nights he would sing her to sleep, songs that are still comforting when she finds herself restless. Sometimes, she’ll play to the tune of his songs rather than the sheets Miss Susie splays out. On a good day, her tutor doesn’t mind, only marvels that Iris is playing so well.

As she reaches the last line of her notes, the end key prompting another applause from Miss Susie, Iris bows her head in gratitude as she’s been taught to do.

“Simply splendid. You could be a famed player filling concert halls if not for being a ne– ” Miss Susie catches herself with an embarrassed flush, eyes falling away from Iris and to her lap.

 _A girl_. Iris thinks she means to say. _If not for being a girl._

Caitlin told her before that women are for men to make wives out of, to bear their husbands a son for his own estates and a daughter for the estates of another. Iris asked Uncle Henry of its truth, he quickly dismissed her question with examples of famous authors and nurses who were no less a woman for not being tied to marriage. He did well to put her concerns at ease, but Miss Susie has her weighing Caitlin’s words once more.

“Never mind that,” Miss Susie starts, waving her hand in the air. “You play well.”

“Thank you,” Iris says. Her teeth tug on her bottom lip in a poor attempt to stifle the number of things she wants to voice. But it proves to be terribly difficult. “Miss Susie?”

Her tutor looks at her expectedly, and her sharp gaze makes Iris shift in her seat. Iris thinks to change her mind but Miss Susie taps her foot impatiently. “Out with it, child.”

“Am I so wrong for being – for being – ” A brief look of anxiousness crosses Miss Susie’s face, and Iris just knows she’s asking a terrible question. “Am I so wrong for being a girl?”

“Oh.”

Her shoulders slouch in such an unfeminine manner that Iris almost wants to correct her as she is often corrected herself. Her cheeks are a bit flushed, too, and Iris considers it a mistake to have said anything to Miss Susie at all given the distress she shows.

“It is hardly a mistake to be a woman and however you have drawn such conclusions, they should be stopped at once. Our society might treat us differently, masked under the politics and norms and false chivalry, but you are _not_ wrong for being as you are. If I hear another word of it, then I’ll take the matter to the Earl myself. Is that understood?”

Iris has a distinct feeling that perhaps Miss Susie speaks of more than her words allow, though she is unsure of what. She can only nod and promise she’ll say no more about it.

And then her lessons continue with nothing amiss.

It’s after Miss Susie concludes their afternoon and Iris is in her room that she wonders on it again. Apart from Miss Susie and Caitlin, there is no one else to tell her about how women are in this sort of world; so vastly different from the simple ways of her aunts and neighbors. Miss Susie teaches her not for the sake of being a smarter person, but because Uncle Henry wishes for her to be seen as a girl worthy of her adopted status. While she knows he’ll never admit to such, Iris is not so blind as to ignore the deeper implications of his words when she might complain about her art lessons and he says, “But don’t you wish to share your talent the next time our guests are over?”

Appearance is everything in high British society, Caitlin mentioned; appearance and the accompanying expectations of being a woman in the homes of lords and ladies. Caitlin’s parents are all too aware of their daughter’s happenings: where she goes, how she speaks, her posture, what she eats. How Caitlin remains unaffected by her mother’s watchful eyes is a mystery in itself, for Iris is completely unnerved _for_ the poor girl.

If Caitlin is the model of a perfect child, then it leaves little wonder as to why Uncle Henry keeps Iris at a distance around others. She doesn’t think he’s necessarily ashamed of her, as she had thought often enough before, but rather that she may not be presentable yet. Caitlin and Barry were born into the same life that she struggles to adapt to, even though several seasons have passed already. There is a part of her that is grateful that her uncle hasn’t just thrust her and forced her to adjust. The pressure to be like Caitlin is maddening in theory alone. To put it into practice makes her feel faint.

Despite it all, Iris wants badly to please her uncle and show to him that she can fit in well with an earl and his young lord. Although adopted she may be, she’s every bit capable of being part of their family. If it means that she might have to conform herself to the mold of the women around her, then it seems like a small sacrifice to make Uncle Henry proud.

 

*

 

“London?”

Uncle Henry nods over the news, the slight tilt of his lips giving away his amusement in an otherwise unfazed expression.

“Are we really to go to London, Papa?” Barry does nothing to mask his excitement at his father’s words, and Iris is relieved that she doesn’t have to hide hers either.

“So long as you’re both behaved and performing well in your lessons,” Uncle Henry answers. “I’m needed there for a little longer than usual this time, and I thought it would be a perfect opportunity for the pair of you to make a visit.”

She can barely keep still during the rest of their breakfast or even finish much of her food, despite Uncle Henry scolding her for allowing her toast to go stale and the tea to become cold. How can she focus on anything else when she’ll be going to London?

London!

Iris only remembers the city in a quick memory from when she made her uncle’s acquaintance, but that hardly counts as an experience. She’s seen the city in picture books; tall towers illustrated in black and white that Barry swears do little to show the true beauty of it. The estate is always flourishing with gossip about the residents of London. Iris hears the maids whispering about His Highness and his rumored madness, about which lady is in discord with another, about the lords and the women they keep – women, Iris learns to her shock, who are not their wives.

She’s sure the residents of London will leave a memorable impression, if gossip holds true, but there is so much more that she wants to see. The Buckingham Palace (Is it really a palace? How big is it? Who lives there? What does King George plan to do with his gift? Can they look inside?), London Bridge (Does it extend far? Will they be able to cross it? Will someone jump in to save her should she fall over? Barry would, she knows he would), the coffeehouses full of Britain’s hardest workers and brightest minds (What can she learn about politics? Judging from her uncle’s disdainful tone always, is there anything she _wants_ to know about politics? What can an eight year old do with politics?), and Fleet Street.

Fleet Street – it’s been the object of her fascination of late. Uncle Henry promises that it is hardly a spectacular sight, but how can the home of the printing press _not_ be? The morning papers that are born between the walls of Fleet Street are read throughout the country. Even the news Uncle Henry reads daily are addressed from Fleet Street, and what is greater than having a paper read by the masses?

Maybe it isn’t a thought she is ready to voice yet, but writing is becoming increasingly important to Iris, and she dreams of the days that she might share her work, too.

Iris’s mind jumps to the little book that Miss Susie gifted for her, hidden underneath her bed for the nights that she can’t sleep and needs the pages for her thoughts. Nobody knows it exists, except for her of course. It isn’t a secret necessarily, yet it feels too personal for anyone else to know about.

She has filled its pages with stories; stories of her father, of the things she has heard about her mother; thoughts of a girl and boy, of an uncle, too; tales of adventures with an impossible man saving the world, a figment of her imagination certainly, but a hero nonetheless. Each story is special to her, and the skeptical, selfish part in her mind tells her that the meaning would be lost to others who would only see plain ink to paper. She likes that the book is hers alone because it _deserves_ to be hers alone.

The better part of her knows that Barry and Uncle Henry, even Miss Susie, would enjoy the stories she’s created. They have never said or done anything to make her think they aren’t supportive. It was Barry that first encouraged her to pursue writing more, wasn’t it?

“Alright. Off to your lessons now,” Uncle Henry says, folding the edge of his paper to look pointedly at them. “Remember our deal.”

Right. Performing well in lessons.

That means she’ll have to spend more hours reading and studying for the next week rather than writing – which is a bit troublesome since she’s thought of another adventure to write for her fictitious hero.

It’s still a mystery as to how the impossible man made his way to her. In some ways, he reminds her of Barry, especially his selflessness and good heart. She remembers the times Barry has given her comfort by sacrificing some of his own: holding her hand when she feels lonely, offering his dessert when she wants another, choosing to play with her when his friends refuse, giving her a place in his bed on the nights she sleeps the worst.

He isn’t quite a brother in the same regards that she might consider her uncle a father figure, though Iris can’t yet call Uncle Henry her father because too many times Iris sees Joe West’s face smiling in her dreams. But Barry is there when she needs him, as the impossible man is there when the world needs him, too.

Perhaps, then, Barry is why her character manifested to begin with. 

“You seem a bit distracted. Excited for our trip to London?” Barry nudges her shoulder, the same boyish grin on his face from when Uncle Henry suggested the idea.

Iris rolls her eyes, though she _is_ excited. “It isn’t guaranteed. We must have high marks with our tutors.” They turn on the corridor; Barry’s groan carrying as an echo while they climb the stairs.

“We have the highest marks already.”

“Because we’re the only two students, Barry.”

“Then there shouldn’t be a problem, should there, Iris? Without anyone to compare, we’ll have the highest marks.” Oh, sometimes his cheekiness is worth smacking him for, especially with that stupidly boyish grin on his face. He comes to a halt at the place of their part and looks hopefully at her. “I’ll see you at lunch?”

“See you at lunch,” Iris agrees. 

Apart from breakfast, her morning remains dull. Lessons continue on as they always do. Miss Susie hums her approval, clicks her tongue in disapproval, and Iris continues to struggle in arithmetic. It’s a blasted subject, truly.

“‘Blasted’ isn’t a polite word to use,” Miss Susie scolds. She corrects Iris’s work, inking red checks and lines where mistakes must be fixed. “How will you account for your money or belongings when you’re older?”

Iris frowns. “I should have Uncle Henry or Barry to do it for me.”

“You should most certainly _not_.” Miss Susie sighs. “My dear, women are learning to take care of themselves, without having their fathers and brothers and husbands interfering in their affairs. I shan’t have my own pupil be unable to do the same.”

She doesn’t think Miss Susie would appreciate hearing that even if she ever did learn such a stupid thing like math and became Europe’s renowned mathematician, Barry would still offer to do her accounts for her. And Iris wants to ask what accounts she’ll ever have in her name? While Uncle Henry has never deprived her of the most basics of her needs and wishes, Iris can’t imagine having any money for herself.

It isn’t unheard of for women to work – the maids, Miss Susie, their seamstress – but it is particularly unusual for a woman of the house to work, and how many times has Caitlin reminded her that she will one day become one? Though Iris cares very little to become a wife at all, especially when she wants to write all her life instead, it will be her husband’s account that need taking care of.

Iris groans at the thought of ever having to leave Central Estates.

“You’re acting petulant. Mind your impolite behavior,” her tutor reprimands.

She knows well to not rebut. “Yes, Miss Susie.”

“Let’s correct these equations, then.”

 _London_ , she thinks of London. “Yes, Miss Susie.”

It’s a terribly difficult thing to correct equations and bite a retort every time Miss Susie feels it appropriate to _tsk_ this way or that after everything Iris does, terribly difficult with her mind on London. She behaves her best and wills some concentration for the next hour and a half until mercy is given. Miss Susie excuses her for a break by the late-morning, near noon now, but bids Iris to come back in no longer than twenty minutes, to which Iris readily agrees to.

Twenty minutes is hardly enough time to seek Barry out so she finds a place on a bench just outside the ballroom, overlooking the growing colors in the back garden.

She wonders if the flowers have bloomed as beautifully in the city as they have here. The glooms of a cold winter have only just begun melting, and the snow has watered the greens to life again despite the thin layers of dewy white covering the estates. Then, in a few short months, the greens will take to a warmer color during the hottest months, and to cooler reds and browns when fall is upon them till they drown in snow; a cycle in the making once more.

Iris loves to watch the change in seasons, though Barry seems eager for one to end and another to begin always. She has learned to cherish the beauty of it, perhaps because two years is simply not enough to get used to distinct seasons. Barry was raised in it and prepared for the winds and sun and rain in four-month increments. A coat ready by September, boots by November, long tunics by March, looser breeches by June, and he flits about through them all.

She tends to enjoy it more. A scarf by September for the days she wishes to read by the trees and its falling leaves, a thick dress by November to keep her warm during her walks around the chilling lake, boots of rubber by March so she can spin in the rain, a cotton gown by June that affords her breeze as she lays sticky in the grass.

The sun peeks higher over a cloud, and Iris smiles as she basks in the warmth of it.

No matter how many equations Miss Susie makes her do today or the rest of the week, she has a new spring to look forward to, and London.

Her first time away from Central Estates.

 

*

 

Packing is a bit more of a hassle than Iris expects. She isn’t allowed to choose which of her belongings to bring along, even for a short trip to London, and Miss Susie is charged with telling the maids the clothes and shoes that are and are not appropriate for the suitcases ( _Expectations, Iris. You’re never too young or old for another’s expectations_ , she can practically hear Caitlin’s voice lecturing her).

On the day before they’re set for London, the maids work endlessly to ready the children on Uncle Henry’s instructions. They’re to be packed, groomed, and rehearsed for meeting her uncle’s important working partners, maybe friends of his, too. Uncle Henry had left earlier in the week, promising to spend most of his time with her and Barry should he get enough papers pushed through parliament by their arrival. Iris knows that she would enjoy the city and its adventures with Barry alone, but she wants her first experience to be the three of them so she spends the nights leading up to the departure praying for it as she was once taught to do.

Barry is equally as excited about their trip, and while the maids and servants attend to each of their luggage, she spends the afternoon and evening with him, feet in the lake and deliberating what they will do first.

“There’s a famous parlor that sells fifty different flavors of ice cream. I think we should go there,” Barry says, watching her reaction with a happy gleam in his eyes.

Fifty! Iris hadn’t even realized that any more than ten flavors existed. 

“We’ll have to go many, many times. I would like to try them.” Her mouth waters thinking about the sweet, chilling taste of cream on her tongue, in all sorts of flavors and decides definitively, “I would like to try _all_ of them.”

Barry giggles. “You’ll get sick, then.” Maybe she would, but – oh, so many favors that deserve her attention. It’s like Barry reads her mind when the corner of his mouth quirks in a knowing smile. “It would be worth getting sick for, wouldn’t it?”

“Absolutely.”

Chocolate, he tells her, and vanilla. Pistachio, coconut, banana, marshmallow, toffee; he lists each one off his fingers until they indeed reach fifty flavors. Her mouth waters all over again.

“And we’ll have to try the King’s Tea! It’s made only in London,” Barry adds. “You’ll love it.”

She trusts Barry enough to think she will. He continues going through their unofficial agenda, his face lighting up at every suggestion he gives her like there is a fond story behind each one. It makes her wonder why he hasn’t gone to London more recently.

He has clearly been several times, and Uncle Henry has mentioned it before that there are mostly happy memories of Barry’s time in the city, when the visits were more frequent prior to having earned his Earl title. But she knows that in the two years and however long preceding her arrival, Barry hasn’t been back once. He hasn’t even entertained the idea of joining his father like Iris has on occasion.

After he’s offered his ideas, quieted and waiting for Iris to agree along, she asks, “Barry, why have you stopped going to London?”

The question brings a frown to his previous smile, a saddened look she has learned to hate very much. When he’s silent for a couple minutes longer, she wants to take the question back.

He shrugs with almost convincing nonchalance, and, if not for how he avoids her eyes when he answers, chin dipped to his chest as he paddles his feet, she could believe that he is unbothered. “It was something we did with my mother.” Iris is aware that she should kill the list of subsequent questions that come to her, for she wants to be the last person to ever put that frown on Barry’s face. There’s only one that stands out the most.

“How come you’re returning to London now? Won’t you miss her?”

“I’ll always miss her, Iris,” He looks at her this time, thankfully without the frown and, instead, with a funny curve to his smile that stirs a weird flutter in her stomach, “but I can enjoy everything with you now.”

She thinks she understands. Nothing could ever replace the loss of her father, or even a mother she didn’t know; not the endless number of hugs and kisses her uncle could shower her with, or the thrill of having Barry at her side. She has new memories, though, ones that fill her with a different type of happiness; ones that she very much credits Barry and her uncle with.

“Come on,” Iris says, grabbing his hand and pulling them up onto their feet. She shakes the water off, like a common dog that Miss Susie would scowl at, and Barry does the same. “We should see to Sir Monty and Miss Susie, if they require help.”

Sir Monty and Miss Susie don’t require help, as it turns out. Instead, they head for the kitchens, where the cooks have supper set on the table for them: a stew too light to keep her full for the rest of the night, but she forgoes dinner entirely because of the anxious excitement she has for the next day to start already. Eating dinner means prolonging the current day further, and the only thing she and Barry want to do is get to bed so they may wake sooner for their departure.

It isn’t easy to sleep, for reasons more than the early hour, Iris is sure.

She has for the better part of the week decided that it is excitement, above all else, that weighs the strongest on her; to be able to see a city she has only ever read about. It will count as her first time properly off the estate, around others who aren’t under the employment of her uncle or a relative of Barry’s.

The excitement does little to ease the accompanying anxiety, however.

Barry is used to his father’s companions, men and women of the like who hold trueborn status. Iris has hardly made introductions to anyone other than those her uncle has permitted under strict measures.

Maybe minutes, or hours, pass that Iris listens to the slight breeze picking up for spring, rustling the branches outside and creating an odd calm over her. Barry must be able to hear them from across the hall, too. There is a certain comfort in knowing he can – it reminds her that Barry will be with her in London, and so she won’t have to face any of it alone.

Her lids grow heavy with contentment, sleep coming with no resistance when she closes her eyes this time.

The morning finds her too quickly, though perhaps not quickly enough once she’s awake enough to realize she is to leave for London in a few short hours. Her teeth are brushed, her body washed, and curls in a tight ponytail before she sets to find Barry.

“I believe he’s down the stairs, Miss,” one of the upstairs maids, Beth, tells her. From how wildly Barry’s nightclothes are tossed around the room, sheets in a twisted mess on the floor with poor Beth cleaning the room after him diligently, Iris knows she’ll have to do little to get Barry excited.

Iris has half a mind to lend Beth a hand – it isn’t too often than either she or Barry leave such a mess for someone to clean up after – but remembers from the other times she’s offered that she was ushered from the room instead. So she asks, “Beth, are you coming with us to London?”

Beth huffs a laugh under her breath as she pulls one side of the sheets across the bed. “I should think not, Miss.”

“Why not? I think you would have fun with us.” It’s true for the most part. There have been occasions when Lady Snow would _tsk_ Barry and Caitlin for being cordial with Uncle Henry’s staff. _They are the help_ , she would say. _It isn’t your job to stoop so low and make conversation._

But the people in the house, all of them that Iris can name, from the stables to gardens to the kitchens and so forth – they’re as much family and friends as Uncle Henry and Barry are. They prepare the meals she eats, they clean the clothes she wears, they give the medicine she needs for the days she’s sick, they share stories with her about their families and where they came from and the people they know; why shouldn’t they be called her friends?

“There is plenty of work that needs to be done at the house, Miss. The Earl will want the estate prepared for the spring gala upon his return,” Beth explains. She turns a teasing eye to Iris. “Or have you forgotten the gala, Miss?" 

“Of course not!” Yes, she’s forgotten. Her uncle hosts too many of these events, and receives twice as many invitations in return that it is hard to remember all of them. Iris’s answer comes out too defensive to be believable she thinks, but Beth laughs anyway and continues across the room.

“You and Lord Barry will have a grand time, Miss. Be sure to give me an account on every bit of trouble you two cause there,” Beth says. A promise Iris can easily agree to.

By the time she’s descended down the stairs, Barry is shrugging into his boots, eagerly waving at her to do the same. “Did you sleep at all?” He ties the laces tightly and double wraps them. “I couldn’t even get a wink in.”

“Then you had all the time to pick your own clothes off the floor so Beth doesn’t have to,” Iris mutters, narrowing her eyes at him. Barry has the decency to at least look embarrassed under her glare, but he shrugs apologetically in that sweet way of his and a smile finds her face. “I suppose Beth doesn’t mind this time. We leave for London, after all.”

“I owe her an apology as soon as we’re back. I’ll even make my bed every day for a month!” Barry promises – an empty promise, Iris wants to warn, but she cannot bear to ruin his enthusiasm again. They perk up like dogs when Sir Monty calls the maids for them, and the maids have little time to catch sight before Barry leads her by the hand, running swiftly through the halls.

Sir Monty is shrugging on his coat by the door, and he just barely grabs for Barry’s collar as he tries to rush to the carriage on the other side. He pulls Barry back and fixes a stern face. “A proper lord does not run.”

“I am not a proper lord yet,” Barry mumbles with a frown. Sir Monty appears less than impressed by his answer, though, and sighs. He glances to where her hand meets Barry’s, his brow arching in surprise – maybe wariness, Iris thinks – but says nothing except to urge a softer tread to their carriage where their driver Mr. Elmer waves to them.

That wariness is a feeling Iris has all but gotten used to now.

 

*

 

Uncle Henry is not there to greet them at the house, which settles disappointment in Iris’s stomach. She finds herself missing him more and more whenever he’s away from them. There is a certain comfort in knowing she has him there, watching over her and taking care of all her needs. Of course, Uncle Henry makes sure that their maids tend to every single one, but he’s security in a way that Barry cannot be.

“He’ll be here shortly, my lord,” the servant addresses Barry. His eyes address Iris differently altogether, and in his less than friendly gaze, Iris is reminded of Lady Snow and the number of other companions that visit her uncle.

She falls behind Barry, away from the curious faces around their new home. They follow her as the servant takes them up the stairs to where their rooms should be. It isn’t quite so big as the estate, but the house is generous in its own right. They climb up two flights of stairs before the servant stops to warmly present Barry to his room.

Iris can tell he’s lived here before, from the books arranged by the well-made bed and the model of moons and stars in the corner. It makes her feel more at home, especially as Barry falls back on the bed with a dramatic sigh.

“It has been forever since I’ve slept in this bed,” he mumbles. His body sinks into the large canvas, a true testament to how soft and inviting the rooms are.

“This way, then,” the servant approaches again, opening a room that is three doors down the hall. She does not expect it to meet her quarters back in Sussex, but the plain sight of its four walls is unwelcoming.

Where Barry had comforters laid in the color of his eyes – a brilliant green in a shade lighter than emeralds – there is but a thin sheet of white across the narrow bed. A short dresser stands by its side, and the only company is the wood of the walls around her. She turns to the servant, hoping that he’ll correct a mistake, but the servant merely nods and backs from the doorway.

Disappointment settles deep in her stomach, and Iris realizes that it isn’t the first time such a feeling has taken root. She looks around the room, thinking that it will unlikely be the last.

 _Why_ , she wonders again. _Why must I always be so different?_

Iris tries not to inquire too much into it, because she is often left grasping at her imperfections, accusing herself of being shameful in her uncle’s eyes. Sometimes she can’t help it, though. She’s different, perhaps not loved any less by Uncle Henry, but she _is_ different than Barry, than Caitlin and Lady Snow and Miss Susie.

 _Be grateful you have a home at all_ , another voice whispers. _Uncle Henry took mercy on you and made you his child_.

And the voice is right. She shouldn’t be picky about her living arrangements or how Barry and Caitlin are treated in comparison to her. She has people who care about her, who love her and welcome her with open arms and see that she is never left wanting.

_Then why do I feel so different?_

There is a chill in the room, empty and hollow as it is, that it makes her shiver despite the impending summer warmth in the city.

Barry’s voice breaks her from the somber brooding, and as he pokes his head around the door with that smile, she is lifted instantly. But as her mouth widens, his mouth drops, eyes narrowing with it. He must notice the same naked peculiarity of her room as she did.

“This can’t be your room,” he says. “Surely Mr. Avery made a mistake – Papa would not put you here – ”

 _Wouldn’t he?_ Iris wants to counter, but it is a nasty little noise in her head that she pushes away.

“It’s a room with a bed, isn’t it?” Iris shrugs. “It is more than I can ask for.”

Barry looks to argue, his brows furrowing deeper until it becomes comical almost. She makes a sharp _shush_ though and he stills. There is no use to linger, and she certainly will not allow Barry to become angry for no sensible reason. 

“When shall we start on our adventures?” Iris asks, returning excitement to both of them.

“We’ll have to wait for Papa. He wouldn’t like us out in London by ourselves.”

Barry is right. Uncle Henry wouldn’t like it at all that they are without adult supervision. She feels impatient, however; impatient and adventurous, and the drab room is all too suffocating. Barry must read her mind because his eyes spark with the same mischievous glint she is too aware of.

“Mayhap Mr. Avery would be so inclined to take us?” she suggests innocently. No servant would willingly accompany children into the city, no matter whose they are.

Barry mocks a hum in consideration. “We shan’t keep Mr. Avery from his duties, nor Sir Monty. He does go on – and on and _on_ – about his never-ending list of errands. God be good should we disturb him.”

Iris giggles despite her efforts to be polite. Poor Sir Monty and his ever-growing list of errands, always muttering about one thing or the other. She is of the opinion that he is too young and handsome a man to seem so stressed, a terrible wrinkle already working between his thick brows.

“What about Mr. Elmer?”

“Well,” Barry starts, conspiracy already in his tone. “Mr. Elmer _is_ an adult.”

When they run to Mr. Elmer who is drinking his tea downstairs, still in his riding gears, he is hesitant in agreeing to their plans. He tries to edge them off their ideas, with gentle words that are easy to talk over. Mr. Avery narrows his eyes from the corner of the kitchen, obvious to their intentions, but he only pins Iris with his glare, as though _she_ is the only mind behind it.

Mr. Avery is quickly forgotten, though, once Mr. Elmer sighs in defeat and agrees to take them into town.

“The Earl will have my head for this,” he mutters as Barry and Iris take hold of each hand, pulling him with a strength that she credits to excitement.

Mr. Elmer proves to know his way around London. He takes them through the small streets, narrow and curved with tall buildings on either side of the street. They go through the gardens behind the large streets, and Iris thinks it might be more beautiful, not for the flowers and trees themselves, but because they are uniquely London; tall and picturesque and full of life. She makes Barry promise that they’ll come back with Uncle Henry and taste all the foods and get balloons and join the other children in their runs around the maze. 

As Mr. Elmer continues with the tour around the city, Iris watches every scene from the carriage windows, Barry by her side. Everything feels so perfect, and London is exactly what she had hoped it to be. Ladies in their new fashions, sleeves puffed around their wrists extravagantly and skirts layered in lace so largely. Their children are like perfectly groomed lords and ladies at their sides; reminding her so much of Lady Caitlin and her propriety, and a fond smile reaches Iris’s face.

She wants to ask Uncle Henry to let her come with him every time he is needed in London, a request that of course he will refuse. But if she can only make him understand how much she enjoys the city, perhaps he will let her visit more.

“This is the coffeehouse Papa always talks about,” Barry says, pointing to the end of the street they are on. It is quite a small building, but Iris can hear the hustle and bustle inside of it even from where the carriage is. Though Uncle Henry claims that he will never step foot inside, it doesn’t stop him from sending couriers in to give and receive news, letters, politics – whatever it is that he needs from the cleverest of young minds.

She remembers Uncle Henry’s sighs when she had visited him in his office, ready to ask for a new book Caitlin had told her about, and she could see the angry scowl on his face as he wrote and scribbled on the documents laid out before him. Iris inquired about them, serving to further deepen his scowl.

“They are a young, arrogant, inexperienced bunch of lads. Liberal and reckless,” he grunted. He stopped to look at her from over the rim of his classes and added, “But they are the brightest with the kind of new ideas that my generation scorns, ones that can inspire the truest changes in the world.”

Iris wants to hear from them, despite not really knowing what politics or literature is about. She understands that there is law and order in society, and those who implement them under the order of judges, politicians, and His Highness King George. But she wants to hear their ideas, learn about the changes they want and the passion they provoke from her uncle, either in content or in fury.

“Do you think we could visit?” she asks.

Barry gives her a doubtful look. “I don’t know about that, Iris. Papa never seems to take well to the coffeehouses…”

“Please, oh, _please_ can we go? Just a peek in?”

“Alright, then. I suppose… But we can’t stay too long. It is already late and Papa will be worried if we aren’t home soon.”

Mr. Elmer seems even less convinced of her proposal to stop the carriage so that they can step down from it. Hours in the carriage and her legs are sore, she pleads with him. “It’s only a little stretch, Mr. Elmer,” she says sweetly. “We can get you a pot of tea while inside.”

“Else you can wait here while Barry and I go inside,” Iris adds. She knows giving him an ultimatum like that is a little unfair, but she really wants to see what it’s really all about, these ambivalent coffeehouses. 

Button’s coffeehouse is not terribly impressive from the outside. It looks older than the buildings surrounding it. The door opens to one patron exiting and another going in, and Iris feels the life within it. One foot in, with Barry and Mr. Elmer right on her heels, she is buzzing from the enticing image before her. It is loud, so terribly, fantastically loud, people walking all around her.

She has never seen so many people gathered in one space, not even during her uncle’s galas. Some are dressed in traditional English clothing that she is used to seeing at the estate; breeches and coats in flamboyant colors, tight leggings to the knees, and buckled shoes just like Uncle Henry and Barry wear. Others dress in the latest threads, tall and sophisticated in buttoned waistcoats and tapered trousers, their hairs holding a natural wave instead of donning the neat curls of wigs like others wear.

“This is amazing,” Barry gapes. She barely hears him over the noise, but she knows he’s close enough that when she takes a few more steps in, he follows.

It becomes dimmer as she goes further in. The coffeehouse is suddenly bigger and deeper than she remembers it being on the outside. No one is paying her any mind, which makes it easy to get lost behind the bodies coming in and out of her way. She hears glimpses of conversations – “ _Thomas Paine tells a truth. There will be a rebellion!” “Burke has no right to serve in Parliament. He isn’t our kind.” “Voltaire is revolutionary in his work!”_ – she doesn’t really know what any of it means, so she doesn’t know which to listen to.

Iris feels herself pushed out of the line of men she was following, pushed until she reaches a wall with nowhere else to go except through a door. A gold, marble lion looks down on her, with its sharp teeth bared and eyes gluing her in her spot. Between its paws is a sign, written in Italian that is too advanced for her to interpret. She turns to ask Barry what it means, but he isn’t behind her.

The crowd in the middle of the room grows louder and fuller, and she wonders if she can find him or Mr. Elmer through its mass. Perhaps they’ll find her first, she thinks, flattening herself against the wall.

Behind its door comes a sound, a thump of sorts that has her curious. Then there’s another thump, and more thumps that succeed it. Iris scans once more for Barry before she lets her curiosity get the better of her. She pins her ear to the door, hoping that she can hear a sound first.

Soft, barely there whispers that are drowned by the constant thumping.

Iris turns the knob just slightly, the door opening enough for her to fit an eye through the slit.

A man and a woman, joined in the corner. Her legs are wrapped around his naked waist, and Iris feels her face heat in shame when she sees his bare buttocks thrusting. His whispering is clearer now; dirty words mixed between sweet ones, words she’s read in those poems she can’t make sense of. 

Before she can close the door, a shadow looms behind her.

“Little black girl, the hell you think you’re doing here?”

The man is thick-necked, a dirty apron tied to him with a nasty grin at his lips. He doesn’t look like the bright mind of the others around him. Her heart is pounding like it never has before, so much that she fears it will leap from her chest without warning. She swallows her anxiousness, and she is unsure about what to do when he kneels to her. 

“Lost are you?”

He doesn’t sound threatening, but when he reaches a hand for her, Iris only thinks to run. She runs right into the crowd, away from the man, away from the couple joined in a way that shames her still.

“Barry! Barry!” she cries, praying that he might hear her and make his way. Her voice feels drowned out by the chatter around her. “Barry!”

It’s suffocating in the crowd. She doesn’t know which way she is walking or going, or where the entrance is. There are only bodies, bodies that are loud and moving, and Iris thinks her breathing is becoming stilted.

In a sudden instance, she feels herself jerked by the back of her gown. She fights the hold of the hand on her until she is grasped at the shoulders and sees her uncle’s glowering face.

“Uncle Henry,” she says with such relief. Her cheeks are wet with tears, she realizes, and her heart is pounding louder in the silence of the hall that he drags her to. Barry and Mr. Elmer are there, and the relief on their faces matches her own. She turns to hug her uncle and thank him over and over again for finding her, but he ignores her attempts entirely.

Her heart sinks to her feet, making her steps behind him feel heavy and slow. Barry matches her wariness. He bites on his lip and she sees the dread in his eyes. They’ve done a terrible, terrible thing, and they both know it.

Mr. Elmer jumps when Uncle Henry calls for him. “Take the children home immediately. I’ll be back soon.”

He doesn’t spare a glance, doesn’t look back, and it’s only the strong tick of his jaw and crisp snarl of the way he says _children_ that frightens her. Uncle Henry gets into his own carriage and departs.

 

*

 

Uncle Henry has been in his office for the better part of two hours since he came home. He hasn’t summoned them, and the house is awfully quiet, as though the entire staff has been informed that they have made an error.

With every minute that passes, each second that goes by that she and Barry expect a call from him, her dread and guilt worsens.

When they decide that they will approach him first, she follows Barry quietly down the flight of stairs and the end of the hall. His knocks seem to echo throughout the house. They hear Uncle Henry behind the door, permitting entrance, and both of their eyes are trained to the floor as they slowly walk in. Neither one of them look up, not even as they sit in the chairs across the desk. Uncle Henry doesn’t say anything either as his fountain pen scratches against paper.

Already, her eyes fill with tears for all that has happened today, and more for upsetting her uncle so much that he will not even look at her.

She wonders how long they will sit in silence, and Barry seems to read her mind because he finally says in a tiny voice, “We’re sorry, Papa. We didn’t mean to – ”

“What were you thinking?” Uncle Henry interrupts, and though he doesn’t raise his voice, the raw and angry grit behind his words make her shudder. “What a _stupid_ , ill-advised decision you made.”

Barry sniffs from his seat, and Iris lets her tears flow freely and hot down her cheeks.

“Do you have any idea the kind of danger you put yourselves in? Did you think even _once_ about the consequences of what might have happened if I hadn’t been there? Those coffeehouses are not for children, especially not for _unaccompanied_ children. And you, Iris – what in God’s good name possessed you to act so utterly reckless? I trusted the both of you to be well behaved when I invited you here. Did I confuse you with my words? Surely, not, because they have been as plain as white boards. So, again I ask, _what were you thinking?_ ”

A question that he has no means for them to answer, Iris knows, but she cannot help the words that leave her mouth. “We’re sorry! We were just bored at home and we wanted adventures. You weren’t here to greet us and we didn’t want to bother you. We’re so – ”

“ _Enough_!” her uncle roars, slamming his hands on the table with an unexpected might that startles her and Barry from their seats. “I am not to be blamed for the carelessness of your actions.”

Uncle Henry exhales deeply, calmly, but it doesn’t keep Iris’s hands from shaking at his outburst. She fights her tears and finds it hard to swallow the accompanying ache in her throat. They have angered him so much; her sweet, cool and composed uncle who has never let them feel unloved. Her guilt swelters in her chest painfully.

“Look at me,” Uncle Henry orders. And for the first time all evening, they look at their uncle. Beneath the stern face, Iris sees the worry, the fright for their wellbeing. “What would I have done if anything were to happen to you, to either of you? You’re never to do anything like this again, do I make myself clear?”

They nod, and as Barry opens his mouth to say something, her uncle raises a hand and stops him abruptly. “I won’t hear any more of it. You’re to go to your rooms and sleep.”

They understand what he means. He has forgiven but not forgotten. When Iris wakes in the morning feeling a little better, Mr. Avery informs them with a grim, disapproving face that Mr. Elmer has been asked to return to the estate and pack his things. The nauseating guilt that fills her is a reminder from her uncle that all actions have some consequences.


End file.
